


Painkiller

by QuillsAndInk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post Reichenbach, non descriptive sexytimes, non descriptive smut, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:52:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6184957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillsAndInk/pseuds/QuillsAndInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is feeling guilty about Sherlock's death. When he gets drunk, Mycroft cares for him. Fluff and sexiness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painkiller

  
Painkiller

You know _you need a fix when you fall down_  
_You know you need to find a way_  
_To get you through another day_  
_Let me be the one to numb you out_  
_Let me be the one to hold you_  
_Never gonna let you get away_  
_The shoulder you cry on_  
_The dose that you die on_  
_I, I can be your painkiller, killer, killer_  
_Love me 'til it's all over, over_  
_'Cause I'm the shoulder you cry on_  
_The dose that you die on_ _I can be your painkiller, killer, killer_ _~_ _Painkiller, Three Days Grace_  

 

It should have been raining. The sky should have been grey and torn with thunder. Sherlock Holmes was dead, but the world went on. Greg Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. He hovered at the edge of the group gathered around the grave, uncertain of his welcome. He had considered Sherlock a friend, but ultimately it was his actions had driven the young genius to plummet to his death from the roof of Bart's Hospital. He studied the small group, searching for one face in particular. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, was standing even farther from the group than Greg. He was leaning on his umbrella, staring away into the more distant gravestones with a detached expression. A small thrall of a attraction surged through Greg. He vehemently forced it down. This was not the time, nor place. Besides, Mycroft Holmes would never go for him.

 _Still, no one should be alone at funeral, especially if it was their brother's coffin being lowered into the ground_ , Greg thought. He watched Mycroft, trying to decide if his presence would be unwelcome or merely tolerated. In the end it didn't matter. He was responsible for the death of Sherlock Holmes. He might as well have thrown him off that roof.

Mycroft didn't look up from his contemplation when Greg approached. That wasn't surprising. Sherlock would often ignore the detective's presence for hours if he was absorbed in thought.

"Hello, Detective Inspector." The greeting was surprising. Greg had believed Mycroft to be unaware of his approach.

"Sorry, I don't want to disturb you. I just wanted to apologize."

Mycroft looked at him, his eyebrows raised in an expression that was obviously meant to convey surprise. "Why? Did you push Sherlock off a building?"

 _I might as well have_. "No, but-"

"Then there is really no reason for an apology." Mycroft hooked his umbrella over his arm, straightened his suit, and nodded to Greg. "Good day, Detective Inspector."

Greg watched, dumbfounded, as he calmly walked away.

"Cool bastard," Greg muttered at Mycroft's retreating back.

Hours later, in a dingy pub in Soho, Greg Lestrade realized with some surprise that he was alarmingly drunk. The bartender gave him a dubious look when he asked for another round, but obviously decided he needed it.

"She left you." Greg suddenly changed his mind. He wasn't alarmingly drunk; he was dangerously drunk and obviously hallucinating because there was no way that Mycroft Holmes really had just sat down next to him at this pub, of all places.

"What are you doing in my head?" Greg demanded, the question making perfect sense to his alcohol soaked brain.

The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched, which was probably the closest the man ever came to smiling. "If I were an alcohol induced hallucination, I would hardly be able to tell you why I am here, would I? Seeing as I am not, I'm here to apologize."

Greg stared at him, trying to understand what he had just said. Mycroft and apologies did not fit together. He was practically the British government, and governments did not apologize. For a booze soaked brain, comprehension was out of the question. Greg instead chose to focus on Mycroft's previous statement.

"How'd you know my wife left?"

"It was perfectly simple. At the funeral you were wearing a wedding ring; you are not now. She left you, because if you were the one who left you would have luggage, and no one bothers to leave their luggage at a hotel before getting drunk. Sherlock isn't the only intelligent one in the family, you know." Mycroft said amusedly. Greg chose not to comment on Mycroft's use of the present tense in regard to his brother.  
"Oh."

"Sherlock would also point out that, while your wife's departure is the catalyst of your current state, it is not the cause."

"This is when I would tell Sherlock to piss off," Greg pointed out helpfully.

"I should have realized your attempt to apologize came from guilt and a feeling of responsibility for what happened to Sherlock, not an empty sentient. I apologize for having not given you a chance, Gregory. "

Greg blinked at Mycroft through a haze of alcohol and amazement; he was fairly certain the British government had apologized and called him by name in the same sentence.

"You were not responsible for Sherlock," Mycroft continued seriously. "My brother was always going to follow his own course of action, regardless of how you handled the matter. You are helping clear his name. That is more than anyone else would do."

Greg turned away and reached for his half empty glass. Mycroft's hand on his arm stopped him. "I think you've had enough," he said with surprising gentleness. "I'll take you home."

"I don't want to go back there."

Mycroft didn't respond. He pushed a generous amount of money across the counter to the bartender and guided Greg to his feet. "I have a car waiting outside."

Greg quickly discovered that he was extremely unsteady. By the time they reached the door, he was leaning heavily against Mycroft. Though the British government didn't seem to mind.

"You know," Greg mumbled against Mycroft's shoulder, "I always wondered if you were really as unpleasant as Sherlock made you out to be."

Mycroft actually smiled. "And am I?"

Greg shook his head with the absolute seriousness of someone who was too drunk to care if they embarrassed themselves. "No, you're nice. And you have a comfortable shoulder." Mycroft helped Greg into the car. Everything went dark for a moment.

"This isn't my flat." Greg frowned at the door which was suddenly inches from his face. It swung open and Mycroft flicked on a light switch.

"No, it's mine. You are in no condition to be left alone."

"Oh." Greg glanced around the entryway before deciding the floor was as good a place as any to sit down. Mycroft looked amused. He disappeared into what was probably the kitchen.

Greg leaned back against the wall and concentrated on making the room stop spinning. It wasn't working very well. Mycroft reappeared with two teacups.

He handed Greg one with a half smile. "You'll feel better if you drink this."

"I feel fine." Greg groused. But he drank the tea and Mycroft was right, it did make him feel better.

Greg watched Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. He looked relaxed, almost happy. Greg felt something almost like longing when he looked at him. He could have blamed it on the liquor, but he had felt the same thing before when he was sober. Only then hadn't wanted to admit the possibility to himself. Now he understood. He saw it all with the strange clarity that lingers on the edge of incoherence.

Before he realized what he was doing, he had pulled Mycroft towards him and kissed him hard on the mouth. To his utter amazement Mycroft didn't pull away in disgust or anger. Mycroft put a hand on Greg's neck, his long fingers pressing against the muscles at the base of his skull, and when Greg looked into his eyes he saw his own loneliness and longing reflected there. Mycroft's touch on his skin burned like fire and Greg found his mouth pressing against Mycroft's again. Mycroft returned the kiss with almost bruising force, his hands pressing painfully against Greg's shoulders.

He wasn't sure how they ended up laying on the floor in a half naked tangled of limbs; sweat slicked skin pressing together. He didn't know how he fallen so fast and so violently, but it didn't matter. He felt free and it was more intoxicating than hard liquor. Greg laid his head on Mycroft's chest and fell asleep listening to the steady beat of his heart.

Mycroft was gone when he woke up and for a moment Greg wondered if he had dreamt the whole thing. Someone, presumably Mycroft, had brought him a blanket and a pillow but he couldn't remember when. His head was pounding like a brass drum.

He found his clothes strewn haphazardly around the floor and that confirmed the reality of the previous night. He had kissed Mycroft Holmes, had fallen asleep practically naked, pressed against him, and he didn't regret it. He dressed hurriedly and went in search of Mycroft, and hopefully tea.

Mycroft was in the kitchen, regrettably not making tea. He gave Greg a detached looked. "I understand you were drunk. You needn't worry that I will speak of this to anyone."

Greg frowned, Mycroft had proven he was anything but heartless, but now he was acting like he would rather forget what he obviously viewed as a momentary lapse in Greg's judgement. Greg didn't have to be a genius to understand what he was thinking.

"I wasn't so drunk I didn't know what I was doing."

"My dear Detective Inspector, I think we are both aware that last night was a mistake which should not be repeated." Greg flinched at the scorn in his voice, but he wasn't about to let it go.

"Mycroft, do you know why my wife left me?"

Mycroft frowned at him. "I don't see how this is relevant. "

"She found out I had a boyfriend before I joined the police."

"I really have very little interest in your love life."

"What I'm trying to say is you didn't take advantage of the fact that I was drunk, you didn't force me into anything. I kissed you and I don't regret that or anything that happened after. I want you to know that. If you still want me to leave, I'll go and we won't mention this again."

Mycroft was silent. Greg nodded and started to turn away when Mycroft's hand gripped his arm. "Stay."

That single word said more about Mycroft Holmes than any carefully constructed deduction ever could. He was lonely, frightened even, and Greg understood that completely.

This time there was absolutely no doubt that Mycroft wanted this as much as he did. He wanted to be loved, needed to be near someone, just as much as Greg did. Fire raced through Greg's veins when Mycroft's lips touched his. Any control he had once possessed was gone the moment he looked into Mycroft's eyes. He had fallen and was forever lost. And he still didn't regret one second.

They were on the floor again, hands interlocked, foreheads pressed together. Both were contentedly spent and sticky. Mycroft's eyes were closed and Greg smiled at how calm and happy he looked.

"I think I'm in love with you," the whisper was so quiet Greg almost missed it. Mycroft opened his eyes and smiled. "I always thought love was weakness; I was wrong, it's strength."

Greg kissed him again, gently this time, and let his mouth against Mycroft's say what he couldn't find the words to convey.

 

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own nor do I claim to own Sherlock or the characters therein. They belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gariss, and presumably the descendants of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I also cannot claim ownership of the lyrics at the beginning. They belong to large band Three Days Grace. All rights reserved. I claim nothing but the plot. I make no monetary benefit from this story. I live to entertain.


End file.
